Lonesome Squirrel

11: Families Are Nothing But Trouble

There was quite a shake-up at the Mission of Fort Lauderdale. Bruce was
booted out on his E-Meter cans, and all trace of his eight year reign as
Mission Holder was eradicated from the face of the earth. Now I knew how
Josef Stalin must have felt after he died, when his memory was forever
erased from the Soviet Union. Poor guy.

The Ethics Officer of Miami, Frank Thompson, was posted as Acting
Executive Director of the Mission, and his first order was to send Peter
Letterese to the new office of Scientology Missions International for the
Eastern United States at the New York Org to be trained during the next
two months as the permanent Executive Director. Bruce's loss appeared to
be Peter's gain, but then we always knew that Peter had a destiny of fame,
fortune and greatness.

The best news for me was that I was seriously falling in love with my new
auditor. Nancy Witkowski was a thin, six foot blonde with long, straight
hair. She looked much more like a fashion model than the Lead Auditor of
the Mission of Fort Lauderdale. She was a Class Eight and New OT Five,
which meant that she could just look at me and I would have a multiple
orgasm. There was the most hypnotic aroma of fresh cut flowers coming from
between her legs, and it was such a relief to be audited by someone who
looked good instead of those dogs in Miami. I mean, Valerie and Leah were
both such total woofers, with bodies and faces only their mothers could
love on payday.

Nancy had a very relaxed auditing style, and never lost her cool with me.
She found my buttons very easily, and rapidly learned that it was far more
effective to butter me up with seductiveness than to read me the riot act.
From the moment I met her, I felt I was flying in a dreamy state of
unreality where all my present time problems just vanished in a puff of
dry ice. Sitting opposite her in the auditing room, only separated by the
table holding the E-Meter, I tingled endlessly when our knees touched
together, since they were the gateway to thighs more heavenly than any
high priced escort's. My reactive mind was nothing but putty in her hands.
I sent Diana Hubbard a thank-you note of gratitude for sending Nancy to
handle me.

The first thing that Nancy and I did was to review my
"on-purposeness." Purpose is "the survival route chosen by
an individual in the accomplishment of its goal."52 My "on-
purposeness" was my commitment to effectively getting the class
action lawsuit settlements done as a means for survival in going up the
Bridge.

Nancy ran a prepared list on the E-Meter based on my hat write-up which
described my duties as Fields Financial Planner. She found that I had some
"Q&A", or indecisiveness over how my participating in the
claims would affect the other shareholders.

To remedy this, Nancy cut off one piece of hair from my chest. Then she
told me to look at myself, and tell her which part of my chest the hair
had come from. I honestly could not determine that the one piece of hair
was even missing.

I soon cognited on the analogy of this drill to my sending in the claims.
If a shareholder was originally supposed to receive $ 393.87, and now only
received a check for $ 391.14, it would not even be noticed. But when I
multiplied the two dollars and seventy-three cents by ten thousand
claimants, I had a check for $27,300 to go up the Bridge with. The E-Meter
measured a "blowdown", or the period of relief and cognition53
that I experienced when I realized that my worrying over the shareholders
was for nothing.

To drive the point home, Nancy Witkowski had me mock up an "ocean of
tears" as a grief charge for the hair that she removed from my chest.
The process was not run completely until I was crying bitterly in sympathy
for losing that one strand of hair. I finally understood that worrying
about the small amount that each shareholder would not receive as a result
of my participation in the claim was as important as crying endlessly over
a lost chest hair. It was remarkable how much better and more alive I felt
after Nancy's session. There is such a difference between being audited by
a Class Eight auditor rather than a Class Four like Valerie or Leah. It
was like comparing the terror of being constipated to the joy of taking a
real good shit. Life was truly starting to open up for me now.

Fred Hare's telex was very mysterious.

"Report to the Deputy Guardian of Hawaii on 22 October 81 at 900
hours, Church of Scientology Hawaii Org, 143 Nenue Street, Honolulu",
it read.

"Where is the airline ticket?", I asked Kevin. "What hotel
will I be staying in?"

"That's your responsibility", he replied. "Do you think the
Guardian's Office is running a travel agency?"

Jaime refused to go to Hawaii with me. She was too afraid that our plane
would crash because I was so thoroughly evil. Furthermore, she didn't feel
Elysia Skye was old enough to travel, and finally, she didn't want to be
stuck in the same hotel room as me.

There was a radio program called "Auction Action" which was run
by WEXY 1520 on the AM dial. The show was a radio auction of the air where
listeners were able to bid on cut-rate vacation trips. Kevin suggested
that I sign up Cypress Shoes as a sponsor and make a deal with Dick Vance,
the promoter of the show, so that I could be the only person bidding on
their Hawaii trip. That worked, and I was able to get the vacation for
only four hundred twenty-five dollars for two people, including air fare
and accommodations at the Hotel Kuhio. Kevin asked me to tell my father
that the vacation cost eight hundred and fifty dollars, and that he could
come along if he paid for half of it. In this way, the travel arrangements
did not cost me anything.

On the appointed day, I met the B-1 Intelligence Unit that flew in from
Los Angeles, and we raided the Mission of Hawaii at 1282 Kapiolani
Boulevard. We relieved the Mission Holder of Hawaii of his duties,
confiscating his charter, his Mission bank accounts, and even his auditing
certificates. When he refused to vacate the Mission, the Deputy Guardian
of Hawaii declared him a Suppressive Person, and then bounced him out on
his ass. A fight ensued, and five out of the twelve Guardian heavyweights
that went on the bust successfully floored him, knocking him to the ground
on the lawn in front of the building. I did not participate in the fight,
because as I have told you before, I simply abhor violence, even though I
recognize that often it is very necessary to preserve the Technology.
However, I do not want you to think that I was in any way a coward. I got
my ethics in by urinating in his face while he was laying down on the
ground after the beating. It was the least I could do to show my
disapproval for his obstinateness.

For the next five days, I worked at the recaptured Mission as the
Bookstore Officer In Charge, together with a beautiful local Scientologist
named Stephanie Raddatz. Once the Mission was rehabilitated and fully
operational, Stephanie volunteered to hold onto the post herself, and I
was relieved of my interim duties. I loved working in the Mission
Bookstore, putting all of the Dianetics books in size place, dusting them
off, and taking inventory. It was there that I made up my mind that I
would one day enjoy being assigned a post in Scientology Archives, after
we won the War of the Wogs and Cleared the planet. Certainly there were
lots of important tasks to do first, but working with Ron's data in the
Archives Org was a great goal to look forward to in years to come when
psychiatry wouldn't exist anymore.

Nightfall in Hawaii had a splendor all its own. The whores on Kalakaua
Avenue were far more glamorous than the skid row tramps of South Florida.
They dressed up in expensive disco outfits, and they attracted your
attention by grabbing your arm while walking along in the street. At fifty
dollars per pop they were pricey, but the few that I spent time with all
knew how to milk me dry by moving their pancreases in a certain way. I
suppose there is Tech to everything. My father couldn't understand what I
was so busy doing all day and all night, but somehow I still managed to
meet him every afternoon around dinner time.

When I returned back to Florida, Fred Hare called Kevin to be sure that I
was invited to the victory party at Flag which celebrated our numerous
successes in Hawaii, including the fact that the Mission Holder had
finally done the right thing and killed himself. Inasmuch as I wanted to
attend, I was unable to go to the Fort Harrison because I had started my
Grade One auditing. The Uniroyal Class Action litigation had been settled
and paid out, and I once again had plenty of money to continue my progress
up the Bridge.

Grade One, or the Problems Release, was lots of fun to do. I found out how
to recognize the source of problems and make them vanish.

In a process called "Control, Communication and Havingness One",
Nancy Witkowski ran the command, "Give me that hand; Thank you",
for two hours, over and over. When we were finished, I was upset that I
couldn't keep doing it, because touching her hand was really stimulating
for me. I was about five minutes away from a climax, and no doubt the
E-Meter gave me away. I realized, of course, that I had paid for a
problems release and not a sexual release, and I knew it was wrong to get
more out of the auditing than I was entitled to.

But if there was ever a process that made me forget about all my problems
completely, it was "Control, Communication and Havingness Two."
What would happen to you, if for four hours, you were told to look at the
wall, walk over to the wall, touch the wall, and turn around, over and
over and over and over again by a happy, smiling, hysterical female
auditor. I'll let you know what happened to me. I started spinning. The
walls dissolved, Nancy turned into jelly, I tripped over my own body while
exteriorized during a dizzy spell, and the only problem that I thought I
still had was in deciding who was going to recite the Scientology Prayer
for the Dead at my funeral.

Amazingly enough, after the routine was over, I felt better. I didn't have
problems any more. It was such a relief to throw up, because I had not
vomited in years. There was probably stuff in my stomach from former
lifetimes that came out in that gargantuan heave. CCH-2, which is the
abbreviation for "Control, Communication and Havingness Two" is
absolutely a real winner. I would rush down to the local Org and put that
process right on the Master Card if I were you. Getting through it is
guaranteed to get you higher than any booze or drug trip that you have
ever been on. Really. If you ever go into grief over losing a loved one,
do CCH-2. You'll never even remember what you were crying about. Just
read my Success Story. It's on file with the Scientology Mission of Fort
Lauderdale. I didn't lie when I said that CCH-2 was better than sex.

But that attitude did not last long, because with CCH-3, I started to get
aroused again. Nancy had me place my knees between her knees.

"If only we were doing this process in my bed instead of sitting up
in an auditing room", I thought to myself.

She then raised her two hands with her palms facing me, about an equal
distance between the two of us and said, "Put your hands against
mine, follow them, and contribute to their motion."

Now this was almost as good as watching bottomless table dancing, and it
might have actually been better, because Nancy and I were holding hands
for three hours while our knees were touching together. In "Hand
Space Mimicry", the object of the game was to keep my hands glued to
Nancy's no matter where she moved them. She was tricky too, making
circles, figure eights, and neurotic, erratic motions which tried to force
me to let go. I was so happy that she wasn't wearing a bra. You have no
idea how much of a woman you can see if you are holding hands with her
while she is moving her arms wildly and the buttons on her blouse are far
enough apart. What a great erection I had! No matter what the bulletin
said, I knew in my heart that a good stiff dick was what Ron really
intended to be the End Phenomenon of the drill. I never had any idea that
I could keep it going that long. When Scientology promises to restore the
lost abilities of a thetan, they are not bullshitting you! I'll vouch for
that.

There are so many effective processes in Grade One that they are simply
too numerous to mention. For example, CCH-9 contains the phrase "Keep
it from going away", and CCH-10 has the command "Hold it
still." I tried running those while I was having a bowel movement and
they both worked! I never realized that at thirty-one years old I could
take a graduate course in toilet training. Wasn't I a big dope to assume
that I knew everything there was to know about it? Sure I was.

"Opening Procedure of Standard Operating Procedure 8-C" was
literally and figuratively an eye-opener too. In Part B, Nancy asked me to
(1) Find a spot in the room, (2) Go over to it and put my finger on it,
and (3) Let go of it. After doing that drill for an hour and a half, I
cognited that this would be a fantastic process for a woman to run when
she is starting to get her menstrual period. It is incredible how Ron
spotted every kind of problem that living life trapped in a body had to
offer. Who would have ever imagined that Scientology had a specific
routine for something as uncommon as Bladder Control PMS. And yet,
critics of L. Ron Hubbard have had the colossal gall to allege that he was
chauvinistic and unresponsive to the needs of women. Now you can see what
a load of libelous crap those rumors were, probably started by a bunch of
frigid feminist whores!

The New Year's Eve party of the 31st of December 1981 at the Mission of
Fort Lauderdale brings tears of drippy nostalgia to my brain when I think
about it. Peter Letterese made a dramatic entrance during the countdown to
AD32, the thirty-second year After Dianetics which we were busy
celebrating. Dianetics, of course, was created by Ron in 1950, which is
the base year of the Scientology Calendar.

Peter had completed his training in New York, and had just returned after
a short jaunt at Flag, where he received his permanent certificate as the
Executive Director of Fort Lauderdale.

After we watched the televised simulcast from the Fort Harrison, Peter
gave his first briefing to us as Mission staff who were now reunited with
Ron's Church through the heroic actions of the Guardian's Office, and by
Scientology Missions International.

"I will make a New Year's resolution for AD32", Peter began.
"I will never evaluate you, invalidate you, or be reasonable with
your mistakes. I will just run good 8-C (control) on you and see that you
help me produce the highest stats ever for any Mission on the
planet!"

The applause was thunderous, and together with the "Hip Hip
Hoorays" for Ron, lasted over eleven minutes. Peter Letterese was a
ruler amongst men and a God amongst thetans. We all knew that he was Ron's
emissary, skipping and jumping through the wonderful world of ARC. Because
I clapped the loudest, Peter extended to me the honor of organizing his
personal L. Ron Hubbard library of books and tapes as he moved into
Bruce's old office. I had them all in size place and spatially
conceptualized by four in the morning. When everyone else finished their
dusting and polishing, we all went outside to admire the sunrise. It was
such a pleasure to have the world all to ourselves on New Years Day while
the wogs were home in bed, sleeping off their stupor from the previous
night's wanton revelry of drugs and alcohol. What a privilege it was to be
so much better than shit like that.

Since the Mission did not have its own Case Supervisor yet, Peter reviewed
all of the auditing folders himself. When he looked at mine, he came up
with a wacky conclusion that I had a fixated over- preoccupation with sex.
If I didn't know him better, I would have sworn that he was talking like a
suppressive psychologist. In any event, he ordered Nancy to handle what he
perceived to be my "obsessive attention on the second dynamic"
during the continuation of my auditing on Grade One.

"Sex isn't a problem for me, Nancy", I argued. "I just
don't have anything else on my mind most of the time. If it were a
problem, I wouldn't even think about it!"

So in CCH-6, which is called "Body Room Contact", Nancy asked
me, "Is your penis embarrassing to you?"

I thought she was putting me on with such a personal question.

"No!", I insisted. "I happen to like my penis an awful lot,
and it is in no way or shape embarrassing to me at all! I only wish that
girls liked it as much as I did. By the way, why did you ask me
that?"

"Well, in CCH-6, under the section called Purpose of Body Room
Contact, Ron states that the process is done to the preclear to "give
him in particular a reality on his own body",54 said Nancy.
"Furthermore, Ron adds that "Training Stress is upon using only
those body parts which are not embarrassing to the preclear, as it will be
found that the preclear ordinarily has very little reality on various
parts of his body." So, Steve, I just had to make certain that you
were not embarrassed by your penis, because the last thing I want to do as
an auditor is to give you an ARC Break and upset you."

"Hey, my penis is your penis", I assured her.

"Very good", she acknowledged.

That being the case, Nancy ran the repetitive command of "CCH-6 on a
Body Part" for the next three and a half hours, which was,
"Touch your penis. Thank you."

I finally saw the advantage of having a Class Eight Auditor who is
rigorously trained under the flublessness of Standard Tech. An ordinary
Class Four auditor like Valerie or Leah would have been content in seeing
me get some charge off my case after masturbating for an hour or so and
then just ended the process. But after three and a half hours, Nancy
Witkowski allowed me to come to realize the phenomenal news that my body
parts have nothing to do with me as a thetan. A spiritual being can't have
a penis. It's just this stupid looking thing that is attached to the body,
and the body isn't even mine to begin with! I stole the damn body right
after it was conceived by those two strangers called my mother and father!
The fact that my body grew a set of ears, a nose, or even a penis had
nothing at all to do with me! It wasn't my fault the body did that. What
the fuck did I have to do with it? Nothing! I finally understood that the
penis isn't even mine! And I sure didn't like the idea of playing with
anybody else's penis! What kind of a preclear do you think I am anyway?

Peter Letterese was so proud of my Success Story on CCH-6 that he couldn't
get the words out of his mouth. Well, I hope he was proud of me. I would
hate to think that he needed a review on his own Grade Zero because he
didn't know how to freely communicate on any subject. Nevertheless, I
explained to him that my awareness about myself had sprung up faster than
anyone had ever anticipated. I no longer had to take any responsibility
for any part of my body or anything it did to people. Never in my wildest
dreams did I ever think that Total Freedom could be that powerful. What a
wonder it was to be living in the year AD32 when we finally knew what the
hell was really going on.

Between Grade One and Grade Two, Nancy suggested that I take "The
Assists Course", so that I could help other thetans with their
problems too, now that all of mine were finally solved.

There was a six hour drill that Nancy ran on me which had the following
command: "Close your eyes and look at my fingers."

Do you know that it only took me five hours and twenty minutes to see how
many fingers she was holding up without looking at them with my body's
eyes? It was fantastic! A thetan doesn't need eyes to see with anyway. I
told you that once before, or did you forget already? And don't think that
my vision wasn't a thousand percent improved either, because after five
hours and twenty minutes, I rehabilitated my level of perception which was
nothing less than sheer magic. Just from looking at her fingers, I was
able to tell how many layers of nail polish that Nancy had used in the
last year, and I was completely skilled at reading her fingerprints in
mid-air while her hands were moving. You don't get that good with just
your eyes, buddy. And in case you think that I am just bragging and
actually full of shit, let me tell you there is no way that Nancy would
have lied about my recovered abilities. My auditor is an ethical human
being. She would have kept me on the drill for fourteen hours without even
a sip of water if it took me that long to pass it. Obviously I was a
quick learner.

With all of my achievements taking these giant steps toward perfection,
Jaime and her family were still one big pain in the ass.

The Generics Class Action Claim which I sent away in her father's name to
his house in New Jersey was paid to the tune of forty-one thousand dollars
by the claims processing agent, which was the Delaware Trust Company. My
father-in-law Ellis Tollin was a real hero! He kept the whole damn check
for himself and didn't even give his own daughter a nickel of it. If you
can't trust your in-laws with money, you might as well go ahead and shoot
them! I would never have denied him his ten percent commission, and if he
needed a little more, I could have probably negotiated it with Peter on
his behalf. Was I being unfair to him in any way? I don't think so. But to
steal the whole thing and keep me from doing Grade Two was about the
lowest dirty rotten trick that anyone ever pulled on me. I really married
into some cockeyed family, let me tell you!

When I wrote up my Knowledge Report on the incident, Peter was purple with
furiosity. I discovered that an Italian temper looks the same in a
Scientology Mission as anywhere else. Jaime's father had once given me his
promise that he would hand over the check when he received it in exchange
for his ten percent commission, and his word turned out to be worth
shit!

Reggie Monce, an auditor at the Mission, said, "When you deal with
wogs, you really get screwed."

And he was so right. Wogs are truly the scum of the earth. Now I finally
understood why the Emperor Xenu was so pissed off at everybody
seventy-five million years ago. Someone probably fucked around with his
class action claims too.

"There are some new ground rules, Fishman!", Peter roared.
"First of all, I don't want any new claims sent to your moochy
out-ethics relatives! Your father-in-law is a criminal SP, and I want to
know about every overt act he ever committed in this lifetime so that I
can make him pay for this! Secondly, from now on, all claim forms are
going to be signed by imbeciles. Use people who can't read, like your
Jamaican housekeeper. What's her name?"

"Joy Green", I said.

"Right!", he acknowledged. "Joy Green will be just fine. Or
any of those hookers that you run around with; they're good too. Or that
basket case psycho-dog friend of yours that likes women to whip him and
walk on him with high heels. What's his name?"

"Steve Goldberg", I answered.

"Yeah! Get him to sign some cases!", Peter commanded.
"Remember, no more members of your lunatic family, especially your
wife's sick family. What the hell is wrong with you? Didn't you know that
Jaime's father has the integrity of snake shit?"

"I trusted him!", I pleaded.

"You trust everybody!", he growled. "Psychiatrists,
criminals, degraded beings, SPs, squirrels, degenerates, attorneys,
Potential Trouble Sources! But nice, honest people you don't trust, do
you? You would never think of walking over to a poor guy selling
newspapers in the street and offer him ten dollars to sign a claim form.
No, you have to use your crooked father-in-law! You told me yourself that
the cheap bastard never even paid for your wedding!"

"No, I paid for it", I agreed.

"Didn't that tell you what kind of a leech he was? My God, Steve!
What the hell is wrong with you? Do you know why I didn't force you to
get a divorce? Because I knew that there was a check coming to your
father-in-law's house, that's why. Ellie and I talked about it, and we
decided to wait until you got that check. But now look what happened!
You're still married to that stinking filthy pig, and her father took our
money anyway!"

There was no point in arguing with Peter when he was right. After all, he
didn't get to be the Executive Director of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale
for nothing. I tried to explain to him that when I get up to the top of
the Bridge at OT Seven, I would do a personality transplant on Jaime and
exchange her for a higher- toned thetan that would never rip us off.

"You'd better keep her life insurance paid up and start postulating
her death so you could pay me that money back", he warned,
"otherwise you'll never get any closer to OT Seven than the bottom of
a bird cage."

I think Peter would have insisted upon my filing for divorce if he had
stayed in town. However, he had to leave for the San Francisco Org for
some further administrative training, as well as to take care of some
personal family matters of his own. He ordered me to work directly with
Ellie Bolger while he was gone, and to be certain to log all of the claims
with Denise, as well as to discuss any problems I was having with Barbara
Fawcett. I heard rumors that Peter was called away because of some
"situation" that he was having with his own ethics, but no one
would confirm that the stories were true. I saw Peter's departure as a
temporary reprieve with which to buy some more time to avoid confronting
the divorce issue. No matter what Jaime or her family did to us, how could
I entrust my two infant daughters to be raised alone by such a psychopath?
It was a no-win situation.

Unable to confront anything, I had the fortunate opportunity to leave town
for a couple of weeks in March of 1982, when Ellie Bolger summoned me to
meet her in Los Angeles, where she was doing some work for the Watchdog
Committee of the Religious Technology Center, the highest Org in
Scientology.

It was such a relief to miss Jaime's twenty-sixth birthday, which was on
March 11th. Who the hell wanted to spend any time with her, falsely
pretending to be happy? She always bought her own presents with the credit
cards anyway.

Celebrity Center was incredible! During Hollywood's Golden Era, the Manor
Hotel, located at 5930 Franklin Avenue, Hollywood, was the glamorous home
to such stars as Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe, Ed Sullivan and Vincent
Price. Errol Flynn stayed there too, only because he was not related to
Michael Flynn, Lavenda's squirrel attorney. And now, the Manor Hotel was
part of Fifield Manor, Ron's seven story French castle, which housed the
Celebrity Center Org that catered to the rich and famous. In L. Ron
Hubbard's Executive Directive of 2 November 1968, Ron stated "Only
Class VIII's are to audit celebrities; Love, Ron."55 Ordinarily,
being the fair-minded egalitarian that I am, I would have objected to this
caste system where only famous people are first class thetans. However,
since Diana Hubbard had appointed Nancy Witkowski, a Class VIII Auditor to
audit me, why should I complain? I would have to be real stupid to rock
the boat, right? Screw the rest of the preclears getting inferior service.
I was making solid gains, and that's all that mattered.

The castle itself, which was known as the Chateau Elysee, used to be the
main headquarters of the United States Guardian's Office before it was
relocated to the Flag Land Base in 1979. Some of the advanced levels of
Scientology that were being offered at the Advanced Organization of Los
Angeles in the Cedars Complex used to be delivered at the Manor. But now
it was temporary headquarters to the Religious Technology Center, as well
as the Celebrity Center and the Manor Hotel where I was staying.

Ellie Bolger and I had dinner with the Inspector General for the Religious
Technology Center, Steve Marlowe. Afterwards, I was nearly overwhelmed out
of my skin to meet the distinguished Heber Jentzsch, the President of the
Church of Scientology of California, who was giving a briefing about an
Org that I had never heard of before called Author's Services,
Incorporated.

Heber revealed that Ron established Author's Services so that his Tech
would be preserved, even in the event of a nuclear war. He said that there
were five confidential locations being built throughout the planet where
exact duplicates of every word that Ron ever wrote and recorded was going
to be preserved beneath the earth in radiation- proof caverns for
eternity. Heber added that it was quite an immense project, because while
Ron was busy developing the upper OT levels on his yacht the Sea Org
Vessel Apollo, the tape recorder was continuously going all the time. If
that were true, there were probably some fabulous tapes of Ron sitting on
the commode in his stateroom, calling out to his messengers to bring him
some more toilet paper.

"That would have been well worth preserving in five different
places", I thought intently with reverent pride.

I was encouraged to join staff at Author's Services and move to Los
Angeles by Tony D'Urso, the Author's Services Recruiter, but I had no
intention of living in L. A. where there were earthquakes and three
hundred dollar-an-hour hookers, and so I turned it down.

My main purpose in coming to Celebrity Center was to give a debriefing to
Wendall Reynolds, the Financial Planner for the Religious Technology
Center, who besides Diana Hubbard Horwich, was one of Ellie Bolger's
senior executives. Wendall wanted to see what one of my completed class
action claims looked like before I mailed it, so I brought the Gap Stores
claim form with me, which had already been signed and was ready to be
mailed out.

If there was ever a nit-picker, Wendall was it. He spent two hours arguing
with me over the pros and cons of writing up the claims in longhand rather
than typing them. I tried to explain to the thick-headed mule that typing
the claims was much better, because often when they were written by hand,
the penmanship was too hard to read, and the numerical digits were not
understandable. His viewpoint was that the documents looked more
"authentic" when they were hand written.

I looked at Wendall as if he were a complete asshole.

"Do you really think a dumb clerk earning a hundred and twenty
dollars a week in a claims processing office is going to care about
whether the form is typed or written?", I asked with righteous
indignation. "All she wants to do when the five o'clock whistle blows
is to go home and smoke her dope! We're dealing with wogs here, not
intelligent life!"

Ellie valiantly stood by my decision and put an end to the conversation. I
told her that it was a waste of time talking to people as
compartmentalized as Wendall. Although she cordially acknowledged my ARC
Break, she nevertheless reminded me that I, above all others, should
respect management executives who pay such close attention to detail.
Ellie had an uncanny way of turning my most valid complaint into something
moot and absurd.

"I wish I could grow up to be exactly like her", I sighed.

When Nancy Witkowski told me that Grade Two was going to provide relief
from the hostilities and sufferings of life, all I could think of was how
great things would be when I had enough Tech under my belt to postulate
Jaime into a catatonic state of comatose unconsciousness for the next
twenty years. Then I could keep her locked up in her room and have
unrestricted sexual intercourse with her, while all of the nourishment and
nutrition she'd ever need would freely flow up into her body via a tube
inserted in her nose. That would be a fantastic win for Grade Two if I
gained the ability to make all of that happen.

But unfortunately those were actually advanced OT processes, and I would
have to wait quite a while before I had the capability of performing any
miracles like that. Grade Two was a lot less dramatic.

"Recall a secret", Nancy commanded.

"I once had sex with my Aunt Eva's dog Coco", I said. "She
was a black poodle. Hey, that's not fair! It's not a secret
anymore!"

"Your needle is floating", she replied, indicating that the
E-Meter was registering complete agreement with what I had told her.

"Yeah, I remember I had a real good time", I added.

I recalled lots of secrets for the next four hours. I didn't realize how
many funny things I did in this lifetime. I planted over thirty praying
mantis cocoons under the furniture in my Aunt Ray's house; I released a
jar of fifty moths in the closet where my Aunt Bess' fur coats were
stored; I filled my water pistol with black ink and squirted my Uncle
Irving in the face with it, and I burned down the auditorium of my summer
camp by throwing inflammable camphor mothballs into the fireplace, and all
of this occurred before I was twelve years old.

We then ran "Dynamic Straightwire", which were a series of
commands that recalled what secrets and overt acts that each of the eight
dynamics of self, spouse, groups, mankind, life, physical universe,
spirits and God have done to me.

"Think of something a bird has done to you", Nancy stated.

"Well, a pigeon shit on my head one time", I recalled.

"Very good", she acknowledged. "Think of something trees
have done to you."

"They bumped into me while I was walking, just minding my own
business!", I yelled.

"Okay, now think of something your wife has done to you", she
continued.

Telling Nancy my story took six hours, and that was just for the first
month we were married. Nevertheless, we had to continue the process until
the E-Meter revealed a "floating needle." So what if it took
three weeks? There was plenty of cash in my auditing account, and Nancy
worked by the hour, so it was no sweat off of her sweet rectum.
Eventually, as I wrote in my Success Story, I finally realized that I
really hated Jaime. I was so relieved at long last to know the truth!
Imagine! All that time when I thought I loved her I had no idea what a
complete idiot I had been! What a marvelous process the Relief Release of
Grade Two was. For four and a half years of marriage, I never knew how I
truly felt about the bitch. What a relief it was to know how deeply I
hated her guts! I gave Nancy a big kiss because she was such a damn good
auditor. If only she would sleep with me, my life would be complete.

But with Nancy it was strictly a professional relationship. She only would
date men who were OT Five or above. Such prejudice! And Denise didn't give
me a tumble either. She and the auditor Reggie Monce got married, and I
felt like the loneliest person in the whole wide world. Thank God that
Steve Goldberg was still around to introduce me to his succulently sleazy
sluts.

I started dating one of his prized selections, a sex object named Julia
Vaughn, who was my ideal choice for a tramp mistress. She was a prime
example of poor white trash from Kentucky, with a voluptuous but
nevertheless shapely body, with the exception of unsightly stretch marks
from having too many abortions and a couple of barefoot kids that her
mother took care of. Julia had a unique smell of dried up perspiration and
Clorox bleach, and whenever she was not on a cocaine binge, she was an
excellent value for twenty-five dollars. At least both she and Steve
Goldberg were useful for signing the class action claim forms, as Peter
had instructed me to get them to do.

Steve Goldberg paid her twenty-five dollars for sex just like I did, but
he never slept with Julia. All he liked to do is to lick her dirty feet
while he masturbated on the floor, as well as to take nude pictures of
her. He was, after all, a photographer by trade. Within a short time, I
had over several hundred pornographic poses of her for my own personal
collection. Whenever Julia wasn't around and I was forced by the call of
the wild to pay my wife for favors, Jaime allowed me to look at Julia's
pictures while we were having sex. All she did is paper clip the naked
photos of Julia to the back of the magazine she was reading while I was on
top of her. I soon discovered that I could usually finish within Jaime's
five minute time limit while I imagined myself to be with Julia as I
looked at the snapshots. I had to admit that Jaime was becoming a little
more compassionate by letting me do hat. Steve Goldberg didn't agree. He
just said that Jaime was doing t because she knew that she could get it
over with much quicker. Oh, well -- who cares? It worked, and that's all
that mattered.

There was quite a shake-up in upper Scientology management. It was all
caused by the psychiatry- backed United States Government, who, consistent
with other floundering Socialist dictatorships, brought a series of
trumped-up charges against our beloved Commodore Staff Guardian, Mary Sue
Hubbard.

They arrested her on blackmail, bribery, infiltration, robbery and theft
of documents, of all things! What did they think she was, a criminal or
something? I can assure you that none of us, including Mary Sue, ever did
any of those things, except to squirrels and suppressives who were a
threat to the Church and to the Tech. It is so damn characteristic of the
sick, decadent U. S. Government to prevent the only true technology on the
planet from protecting and defending itself. On the day that Mary Sue was
convicted, I was sorry to say that I was no longer proud to be an
American.

Sadly, Mary Sue Hubbard stepped down as both our revered Commanding
Officer of the Guardian's Office, and as Comptroller World Wide. A heavy
heart hung all over the Third Dynamic, and we vowed as dedicated
Scientologists that whoever did this to our adoring First Lady of Ethics
would be punished down to the last Freudian man.

We knew without a doubt that Ron's postulates would free Mary Sue within a
short time when her case came up for appeal, and every G. O. Agent
including myself contributed both money and long hours to do whatever was
necessary to secure her release.

There was also an internal catastrophe within the Sea Org. We found out
that the Case Supervisor International David Mayo was preventing Sea Org
members from going up the Bridge! Since Sea Org personnel had all signed a
billion year contract, part of the fair exchange for that was to assure
them at least 2« hours of enhancement time out of their eighteen hour work
day, so that they could get their auditing and training done on their free
time. What David Mayo did was unthinkable! He was denying these stellar
beings any enhancement time at all, and most of them were frozen on their
Bridge indefinitely.

As soon as Ron heard about this travesty through hundreds of complaints
and Knowledge Reports, he ordered the International Justice Chief to
declare David Mayo a Suppressive Person, and had him excommunicated from
the Church forever. With Mayo out on his ass, the Sea Org was once again
back on the Road to Total Freedom. Ray Mithoff replaced him as the Case
Supervisor International, and jubilantly restored Standard Tech to the Sea
Org.

We also found out that Gerry Armstrong had betrayed us by stealing
thousands of Ron's personal documents, including the very same ones that I
recovered from Lavenda! After all that work, they were missing again! And
to make matters worse, that son of a bitch hired Lavenda's evil attorney,
Michael Flynn, to represent him in a multi-million dollar lawsuit against
Scientology! He even brainwashed Ron's personal biographer Omar Garrison
to join him in his corrupt quest, laden with the allure of dirty
psychiatric money.

Guardian's Office personnel were rearranged and shifted all over the place
by David Miscavige, who was Ron's appointee as the Commanding Officer of
the Religious Technology Center. Very few of us knew much about him,
except that he was very young and very short, and a former Commodore's
Messenger on the Apollo who proved to be more trustworthy than the
treasonous squirrels who were betraying Source left and right. David
Miscavige handled everything, though. He removed Bill Franks as Executive
Director International because he had been in league with David Mayo, and
replaced him with a very elegant and capable Sea Org Captain by the name
of Guillaume Lesevre. Jokingly, we used to call Guillaume "Mr.
Misunderstood", because none of us could either spell or pronounce
his name, or get the gist of what he was talking about through his
chromium plated French accent. Maybe what we didn't know didn't hurt
us!

On the local scene, Kevin Bein was removed as Deputy Guardian of Miami,
and was sent out to California to destroy Gerry Armstrong and Omar
Garrison. He was replaced by Linda MacPhee, a girl with a face so ordinary
she looked quite invisible most of the time. Her seedy worm's breath hair
rivalled the most common kitchen mop, and her lips were so pale and gaunt
that it was impossible to tell where they ended and her face began. Linda
had grey eyes which were the color of whale vomit, and her skin was so
ghastly that it looked like a layer of petrified fabric softener which was
ready to fall at the drop of a hat.

Nevertheless, because of the counter-intention which Scientology was
facing from the black hand of planetary psychiatry, I was drafted to be
the Lead G. O. Agent to work on a new covert operation known as the Ethics
Bait Project. My function was to head up the Ethics Bait Miami Stat Unit
for the B-1 Intelligence Bureaux of the Guardian's Office.

Ethics Bait was the brainchild of Jane Kember, the Deputy Staff Guardian
World Wide, who before the shake-up had been second in command to Mary Sue
Hubbard.

Linda MacPhee briefed me on the operation, which was the cleverest weapon
I had ever seen being used against psychiatry in my life. It made Bingoing
look like playing patty-cake with an electric shock victim. We finally
had a sure-fire way to expose the psychs for their greed and their
criminality. I for one wanted to teach them a lesson for what they did to
Mary Sue.

What was Ethics Bait anyway?

It was a sting operation to trap psychiatrists by their own avarice and
personal greed.

Linda supplied me with health claim forms from all of the major medical
insurance companies, including Prudential, State Farm, Travelers,
Metropolitan, John Hancock, Allstate, Aetna and Blue Cross. I also had a
copy of DSM-3, which is the psych bible of insurance procedure codes and
suppressive diagnostic quackery utilized by our enemies to pad their own
pockets.

When a Security Check or the Ethics Officer found that a Scientologist had
at any time been seeing a psychiatrist or psychologist, the Senior Sec
Checker from Qual, the Ethics Officer or the Master At Arms would obtain
the name of the psych from the preclear, together with the name, address
and policy number of the insurance company which handled the claims for
the psych's medieval therapy.

My hat was to fill out the claim forms so that large amounts of insurance
benefits would be paid to the psychiatrist. The claim would always be for
non-existent sessions which never took place. If the Scientologist had
office visits with the psych on Thursdays, for example, I would send in
additional invoices to the Scientologist's insurance company for Mondays
and Wednesdays. We always made sure that we billed the insurance company
for days other than the actual times when the therapy sessions actually
took place.

We always made the checks payable to the psychiatrist or psychologist.

You may ask why we would do anything that would enrich a psych, when they
were such degraded, aberrated, and shitty beings. Keep in mind that this
was Ethics Bait.

What do you think a psych would do when he received a check from an
insurance company for several thousand dollars for a particular patient?
He cashed the fucking thing, that's what he did. Would you really expect
the psych to question the validity of the check, or complain that he
received too much money from the insurance company? Are you that crazy,
gullible or suppressed to believe that SPs like psychs are honest? Hell
no! They kept the money for themselves! They didn't even have the
integrity to return the overage to their patients!

So then, what I did next was to report these psychs to the Florida
Insurance Commissioner, as well as the American Medical Association and
American Psychiatric Association. It was a perfect way to cause enough
trouble between the psych and the patient where we could get these
criminal bastards off the lines of our preclears. And the preclears never
even knew what was going on, because neither I nor anyone else ever told
them!

Wasn't that the most fab idea? Jane Kember, wherever you are, I could
still kiss you for it on all four cheeks!

We also ran Ethics Bait on ex-Scientologists who were using psychs as
expert witnesses to help them sue the Church. Margery Wakefield was one of
those psychopathic preclears. She had been driven insane by psychiatrists
through psychotropic medication, and in her auditing, was unable to mock
up any mental image pictures. She was what we called a "Black Field
Invisible Case", which means that she could not see anything but
blackness when she closed her eyes. What a cripple! An Invisible Case
cannot see mock-ups or facsimiles. When they try to recall pictures,
everything they see is invisible.56

Instead of going to Flag and doing the End of Endless Drug Rundown and the
Suppressed Person Rundown to handle the effects of both the drugs and the
suppression, she assigned a false target to us and blamed the Church for
her insanity, when in fact all along, we were the only ones who could
truly assist her. She started a civil suit against various Orgs, and
enlisted the help of her mercenary psych as an expert witness. Well,
after her barbarian "doctor" fraudulently cashed the checks
which I had sent to him, Linda MacPhee arranged for G. O. Agent Gary
Klinger to contact the creep, in order to persuade him to gracefully bow
out of the civil suit, or else his license to practice murder through
psychiatry would be revoked by the Florida Department of Professional
Regulation. Gary reported to Linda that the SP psych had "pangs of
self-preservation", and he knew from that moment on not to tangle
with Scientologists. I learned very recently that Margery settled her
case, but not for anywhere near the outlandish sum she originally
petitioned for. Meanwhile, I received a certificate for Actions Very Well
Done from the office of Fred Hare.

The most joy that I had in the Guardian's Office was in handling
Freeloaders.

Now you may think that a Freeloader is either one of Red Skelton's famous
skits or someone that crashes a party just for the food, but in
Scientology, a Freeloader is "Any person who has failed to complete a
staff contract at a Sea Org or Scientology Org or Mission. It includes
persons who "blow" or desert their post and organization of
their own accord."57

As you can imagine, being a Freeloader in Scientology is about as welcome
as the Ghost of Hitler in Jerusalem.

Linda MacPhee gave me the current Sea Org Freeloader List, which stated
the names and addresses of the traitors, when their contracts were signed,
the amounts of services received in cash including training and
processing, and the amounts of time for each person not completely
served.58

If service within an Org is accepted in lieu of a cash payment for
training or processing, the staff member is required to sign a promissory
note for the full cash value of the service he receives. My job was to
find the freeloader and either get him back on post or collect the value
of the promissory note. In effect, I was one of Ron's Loyal Collection
Agents.

Finding the freeloader was easy. There was Tech on it. A simple envelope
sent to the deserter with the words "Address Correction
Requested" written on it would usually yield the new address in nine
times out of ten.

If that didn't work, I would call the family of the freeloader, pretending
to be an attorney who was suing the Church, or a newspaper reporter who
wanted scandalous information on Scientology. Since the family were
usually behind the freeloader's "blowing" or leaving, they were
more often than not only too eager to engage in rumor-mongering, which
ultimately provided me with the information that I needed to track down my
prey.

The next thing we did was to search the public records for the
freeloader's assets. As soon as we found anything, whether it was a house,
boat or car, we advised the Guardian of Legal World Wide who had already
obtained a judgment for the promissory note, in order to start forfeiture
proceedings. I received a commission of ten percent of whatever property
we confiscated from the freeloader as a reward for my upstat of locating
the person and his assets. Often I had to split the ten percent with
Freeloader Financial Rescuers of other Orgs, who helped me by searching
the public records in other areas. We were a close knit bunch of theta
guys who worked together, bashing the heads of these renegade pricks.

Another one of my hats was in preventing the freeloader from raising any
new money to pay the debt off, or to sustain his wog lifestyle. To do
this, my specialty was to call his parents or employer, pretending to be,
in the case of a male freeloader, his homosexual lover. I was drilled in
this great "faggy" accent that was a sure bet in causing alarm
and discontent within the freeloader's environment, especially when I
sounded desperate about the freeloader having to take an AIDS test right
away. With employers, that sometimes didn't work, so I mocked myself up as
a county official from the Drug Rehabilitation Center, inquiring as to
whether the freeloader was still showing any visible signs of cocaine
abuse.

The general idea was to get the freeloader fired, evicted from his home,
and disconnected from his family, so that he would return to his Org, go
through the Rehabilitation Project Force (RPF), and get back on post where
he could once again be useful to us in Clearing the planet. I made good
and certain that there would always be a stiff price and lots of hell to
pay for someone who just wanted to "get out" of Scientology.

My motto was simple. Ron said it best: "We'd rather have you dead
than incapable."59

I did lots of cool things to punish these lowlife Benedict Arnolds.
Ruining their credit was a piece of cake. Linda MacPhee taught me Ron's
Tech on manufacturing mocked-up credit histories with all kinds of neat
delinquencies for payments of mortgages, hospital bills, charge cards, and
utilities. I learned how to report eviction notices that never took place,
so that if the freeloader tried to find a new place to live, he would be
given a swift kick in the behind like he deserved.

We used the resources of the Internal Revenue Service also, sending in
creative memos for large unreported cash purchases exceeding ten thousand
dollars, as well as loads of unreported income. I always forwarded
requests to the Internal Revenue Field Agent as well as his Supervisor, in
order that the inquiry appeared to come from two different sources. Wasn't
I a cute little bastard?

Another excellent maneuver was to turn over the same data to the Drug
Enforcement Agency, so that they would call out their own agents to
investigate. We had blank official stationery printed up from every
Federal agency, so we could easily create the impression that the data
came from them instead of us. We were brilliant! Still, the IRS was our
most popular choice. My "piece-de-resistance" was to request a
specific tax audit for the freeloader known as a "TCMP", which
is an abbreviation for the Taxpayer's Compliance Maintenance Program.

The TCMP is an automatic long in-depth audit of one's finances demanding a
receipt for everything from cars to condoms. In the case of Sea Org
members, there were often many years when the freeloader did not earn
enough income to file a tax return, and he would inevitably provide that
as his excuse. When our personnel records department was contacted by the
IRS to verify that fact, we always said that he never worked for us! Once
in a while, I singlehandedly was responsible for getting a freeloader
arrested for tax fraud! When that happened, I always received a "Very
Highly Commended" certificate from the G. O., as well as a shiny blue
star in my Admin file. Norman Vespi, the newly appointed Success Officer
of Miami, always saw to it that I got all the awards that I was entitled
to. I think he enjoyed his post almost as much as I did mine.

It was real easy to ruin a freeloader's credit, because a lot of the
information about the person's finances and banking was a part of his
personnel file, and that data was readily obtainable through the L. Ron
Hubbard Communicator of each Org. The data was easy to come by because all
Scientology Org or Sea Org members always had to fill out financial
statements when they joined staff! You see? I had them by the balls if
they tried to escape!

Of course, when all else failed, there was nothing that could get results
quicker than calling the freeloader in the middle of the night and
threatening to kill his children, or if he had no children, his parents or
younger sisters and brothers. Four in the morning was the best time to
call. People are closest to death at that hour, and there was nothing
quite as thrilling and unnerving as waking a freeloader out of a deep
sleep and giving him some food for thought.

You know me. I wouldn't hurt a fly. But these shmucks didn't know that!
They were so full of overts against Scientology that they were probably
glad just to have someone from the Church to communicate with, even if the
communication was slightly negative.

My favorite scenario was to wait until the freeloader went out of town,
and then to call his parents or children and tell them that he had just
been killed in an auto accident! Their reactions to my news were
priceless! I was establishing my own little Org of Heart Attack Heaven!
You have no idea how thoroughly effective that was in getting the
freeloader to capitulate. You ought to try it on an enemy sometime, just
as long as he isn't an upstat Scientologist. You'll feel a lot better, and
it will help get your ethics in real good too.

While I was busy shooting up a storm capturing runaway thetans, trouble
was brewing right in my own backyard.

It was my seventy-seven year old Aunt Jeanne this time.

Long before Peter Letterese had given me a Mission Executive Directive
prohibiting me from utilizing members of my family to sign the claim
forms, I had sent in the Technicare claim, which was signed by my father's
eldest sister Jeanne under the mocked-up name of Ann Cooper. The
settlement check was scheduled to be mailed to Aunt Jeanne's house in the
City of Sunrise, which was about four miles from where I lived.

Aunt Jeanne went so far as to put in a separate telephone line under the
name of Ann Cooper, in order to convince the letter carrier that
"Ann" lived in Aunt Jeanne's house as a boarder when the
telephone bills came in every month.

There was nothing different about Ann Cooper's claim for Technicare, but
apparently, the claims processing agent did not think that the
confirmation slip for the purchase and sale of Technicare stock which I
generated on my Hewlett-Packard home computer was genuine. Technological
advances in the wog society were catching up to me. Apparently, too many
people were starting to buy home computers in 1982, and the form looked
suspicious to the claims processing agent whose job it was to review the
claim for payment. They turned over the paper work to the Post Office
authorities for investigation.

Subsequently, two plainclothes Postal Investigators from Cleveland, Ohio
knocked on my Aunt Jeanne's door during a sunny day in August, looking for
Ann Cooper.

"That old cockeyed bitch didn't pay me the last three months' rent,
so I threw her out on her toochas!", she screamed. Toochas, of
course, is the Jewish word for ass.

She told the investigator that Ann Cooper was a crook and a thief, and
complained to him that some of her jewelry was missing. My Aunt Min, who
was seventy-three years old, started cursing Ann Cooper in Yiddish with
words even too offensive for my seasoned ears. They then invited the two
men inside, and offered them kippered salmon and gefilte fish, which they
politely declined. One of them had a Grand Jury Subpoena for Ann
Cooper.

"You should only find her and lock her up and throw the key
away!", Aunt Jeanne screamed.

"She should only get the worst kind of cancer where all of her
kishkes (intestines) get tangled up in black knots!", Aunt Min
added.

"Officer, we're two sick old ladies with arthritis, emphysema and a
little bit of Parkinson's Disease", Aunt Jeanne pleaded. "We
took this stinking horse's ass in because she said they were going to put
her in the Home for the Aged. She seemed nice, and showed us pictures of
her grandchildren and everything."

"They weren't even her real grandchildren!", Aunt Min
interposed.

"We felt sorry for her", Aunt Jeanne explained. "Then she
stabbed us in the back. Imagine stealing from two old ladies?"

"Where did you meet her?", the lead investigator asked.

"In the Jewish cemetery", Aunt Jeanne answered quickly.
"She just lost her husband. He was a kosher butcher, just like my
poor dear Charlie, God rest his soul. Now how the hell could I turn my
back on another widow? But look, I want to give you a description of the
diamond ring which she stole from me. Maybe you can help get it back. I
don't have any insurance or anything, and I can't collect a penny on it.
You detectives look like such nice boys. Are you sure you wouldn't like a
healthy piece of pickled herring in cream sauce? It'll take away your
indigestion."

After three hours of very much the same runaround, the Postal
Investigators left, and Aunt Jeanne never heard from them again. If Aunt
Jeanne had let it go at that, everything would have been just fine. The
Technicare claim was lost, and nothing else could be done about it. Peter
did not want me to send any more claims to the addresses of my relatives
anyway, so there was no harm done. But Aunt Jeanne couldn't keep her big
mouth shut. She told her son all about what happened.

My cousin's name is Richard Klinger. He was not at all related to the
outstanding Guardian's Office Agent Gary Klinger. If Richard Klinger was
one hundredth the man Gary Klinger was, he would still be worth talking
to. But Cousin Richard was probably the most degraded wog on the planet
besides all of the FBI agents and psychiatrists.

Richard was a bald, forty-three year old diamond smuggler with a big fat
belly that made him look like he was always pregnant. He lived with my
other aunt, Bess Seamon, in a huge apartment megalopolis in Floral Park,
New York, called the North Shore Towers. He hated women, but once in a
while, he would go out with them for spite. There was one occasion when he
threw his date out of the car in the middle of a January blizzard on the
Northern State Parkway at two-thirty in the morning, because she refused
to give him oral sex on the way home from the theatre. If that wasn't bad
enough, he wouldn't even give her back her coat to keep herself warm!
Fortunately, another driver picked her up and drove her back to her house
in Great Neck, a fashionable community on Long Island. Aunt Jeanne had to
pay off the girl's parents with five thousand dollars, otherwise they had
threatened to have Cousin Richard arrested.

To this day I am pissed off as hell that anyone would take advantage of a
woman in such a cruel and sickening way.

Even as a child, Cousin Richard was a bad seed. When he was ten years old,
he had a bitter fight with another schoolmate, and after the argument was
over, Richard ran off with the other kid's bicycle to the other side of
the school building, and parked it on a steep hill behind a black 1946
Oldsmobile. Richard jumped inside the car and waited for him. When the kid
found his bicycle, Richard released the emergency brake of the Oldsmobile
that he was hiding in, and as the car rolled backwards, it crushed the
other boy and his bicycle against the car below him. The boy died
instantly. Richard thought the whole thing was very funny. I despised him
for that. In Scientology, we practice Affinity, Reality and Communication,
and accordingly, I detest violence and evil acts of any kind. A person
like Cousin Richard should be strung up on low-current electrified barbed
wire by his testicles until he either rots or fries to death.

Anyway, when Cousin Richard found out about the Postal investigation into
the Technicare case from his mother, he came to me at my home with a
despicable proposition, threatening to tell the two Ohio Postal
Investigators that I was the one who sent in the claim under the name of
Ann Cooper, unless I gave him one hundred thousand dollars. He had the
business card of the men and he knew how to get in touch with them.

I don't know what gave him the idea that I had one hundred thousand
dollars, but the fact was, that I didn't have even one thousand dollars in
the bank. All of the money from the previous claims went into my auditing,
as well as to pay off my credit card bills and to reduce the mortgage
payments on my home. I had nothing left over in savings. I had no
investments. Nevertheless, Richard blackmailed me, and said I would have
to come up with the money within one week.

I had no choice but to immediately report the incident to the Guardian's
Office. Linda MacPhee was very alarmed, since a Postal investigation into
the Technicare claim might have revealed the previous successful actions,
and could have prevented me from sending in future claims. She did not
have a suitable solution for my problem. Instead, she phoned Fred Hare,
who ordered me dispatched to Flag immediately. Both he and Ellie Bolger
were waiting for me with gloom and doom on their faces when I arrived.

"The project consists of the following:", I began. "List
all SPs engaged in squirrel actions or anti-Scientology actions, and get
each one investigated. It will be found uniformly, despite first view that
there is no evidence of it, that anti-Scientologists have in their
background in this life crimes for which they could be arrested. People
who attack Scientology are criminals. That if one attacks Scientology, he
then gets investigated for crimes."

"So what we have to do now is find out what crimes your Cousin
Richard has done", Fred Hare said sternly with a smile on his
face.

It was past the statute of limitations to prosecute Cousin Richard for
killing his classmate. I didn't even remember the boy's name, or the exact
date when it happened.

Since that was a dead end, I handled Richard like I handled any
freeloader, requesting his credit history. A strange thing happened. He
didn't have any credit history. Now that was pretty weird. A forty-three
year old man without any record whatsoever! Within days of doing my own
investigation, I discovered that Cousin Richard never even had applied for
a Social Security Number! The Internal Revenue Service never heard of him.
All of these years he worked as a smuggler in the illicit diamond trade on
West 47th Street in New York, where amongst the Hasidic Jewish diamond
dealers, a handshake was more valid than a written contract, and a
jockstrap pouch was a safer hiding place than a bank vault. In a bizarre
world where secrecy was the key to survival, Richard had never
legitimatized himself.

When I came back to Fort Lauderdale from Flag, I met with both Aunt Jeanne
and Richard, and I told my cousin what I had found out about him. Then, in
front of his mother, I threatened to report him to both the Social
Security Administration and the Internal Revenue Service if he did not
withdraw his blackmail demands.

"You are poison!", he screamed. "One day I will kill
you!"

That was the last thing Cousin Richard ever said to me. Aunt Jeanne never
spoke another word to me or allowed me into her house until the day she
died. Richard never made good on his threat, since, as far as I know, I am
still very much alive and so is Richard, and to my knowledge, he has never
been arrested for tax fraud. Well, who knows? Maybe the IRS will read a
copy of this book and look into it.